31 Days of Sherlock (July2013)
by TheBrightestNight
Summary: A story, a drabble, a thought, an idea, a snippet, a one-shot everyday for every day in the month of July.
1. Assent

**I've started a series of fanfictions where I post drabbles of blossoming ideas from various fandoms each month, a "chapter" for that fandom a day. January was Sherlock, February was Doctor Who, March was Twilight, April was Night World, May was Percy Jackson, June was The Hunger Games and this month is Sherlock once again, because I've, regrettably, run out of fandoms. It isn't that I'm not in more fandoms, it's more like I don't know the characters and/or storyline enough to feel comfortable writing about them. And I think it's safe to assume, until I feel more comfortable with other fandoms, I'll be going in the order of the first six months.**

**I'll attempt to post every day and if I don't you'll get the number of chapters for the number of days I'm absent. Suggestions or ideas for this particular fandom are welcome (because writer's block will probably be the reason for my absence) in reviews or PMs.**

**July: 31 drabbles that have anything and everything to do with anything and everything Sherlock. I'll leave you to your own deductions (or rather, imaginations) afterward.**

**They can be AU, OOC (but I don't particularly like OOC, so you won't see it often or at all), BBC canon, (possibly, but not likely) ACD canon, etc., etc., can feature any of the characters at any one time, may vary in length from a sentence to a paragraph to a page to pages. Themes may range from sweet to fairly dark and everywhere in between.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

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#01 | Assent

"You know, I forgot what a pain in the arse you could be sometimes." Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock smirked at the Detective Inspector.

"Yes, but I'm worth it." he said before he turned and headed down the hall, John following suit.

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**I'm excited to be back on Sherlock! You?**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	2. Trap

#02 | Trap

"Sherlock, don't do anything until I get there. You hear me? Just wait for me." John instructed in a harsh tone, through the phones receiver.

"You won't make it time." Sherlock responded simply.

"In time for what?"

"I'm going to walk into a trap in ten minutes."

There was a small moment of silence on the army doctor's end as he processed what he'd just been told.

"Did you just say a trap? You're going to willing walk into a trap—"

"Phone Lestrade, he can fill you in on what you've missed." Sherlock interrupted him.

"No, Sherlock—" John tried again but the detective had already hung up.

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**Credit to The Finder, for this idea.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	3. Experiment

#03 | Experiment

"Damn." Sherlock cursed under his breath.

The client, Catherine Brookes, looked at him with wide eyes. "What?" She whispered, her voice high, breathing rapid. "Are we not going to make it out of this?"

They were currently in hostage situation with a few other innocent bystanders. Two masked men with guns were wandering around, making sure that everyone stayed on their knees, hands held behind their heads.

"No, I just remembered I left a heart in the oven." Sherlock looked at his watch as he spoke (softly). "Now I won't be able to take it on time and the whole experiment will be ruined."

"Sherlock," John said in that warning tone of his.

The consulting detective looked over at the army doctor, who was giving him a look.

"Bad time?" Sherlock queried.

"No, not at all." John responded his whisper intonated.

It was Sherlock's turn to glare at John. "I don't appreciate your use of sarcasm."

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**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	4. Theatre

#04 | Theatre

The curtain rose when Moriarty blew up the flat across the street from 221B.

The stage collapsed when Moriarty spoke to Sherlock and he killed himself.

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**Hopefully longer ones to come soon! (This month's only just begun.)**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	5. Sorry

**TRIGGER WARNING: mildly descriptive gore and mentions of suicide.**

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#05 | Sorry

The door to 221B's lounge slowly swung open, Sherlock stepping through the door and onto the threshold. John was sitting in his armchair, with his laptop typing something out for his blog, probably their most recent case.

"John," the detective greeted, only it didn't sound like a greeting, it sounded more like a warning. John looked up from his laptop and over his shoulder, nothing seemed wrong, but Sherlock's posture was stiff and his movements very controlled.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked, setting his laptop aside and standing up.

"Don't make any sudden movements." Sherlock ordered quietly as he slowly walked further into the room revealing the reason behind his abnormal behaviour as opposed to his usual abnormal behaviour. A girl, about sixteen or seventeen, long red hair, bright green eyes, was holding a gun to Sherlock.

"What… what's going on?" John asked carefully, eyeing the girl, his military instincts automatically kicking in as adrenaline rushed through his veins.

"That doesn't concern you," the girl answered, not taking her eyes off of Sherlock. "You may leave now, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes, I'd like for you to _slowly_ turn and face me. Keep your hands where I can see them. Both of you."

"I'm not—" John started but Sherlock interrupted him as he slowly turned around like the girl had instructed.

"Just do it." he hissed, glaring at John.

John looked back and forth between Sherlock and the girl for a moment before his eyes came to a rest on the girl, who was keeping her eyes trained on Sherlock.

"And what if I said that I'm not going to leave?" John asked slowly, measuring her reaction.

John could see her think about that for a moment and before either of the two men had time to respond, she'd cocked the gun and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Sherlock's leg, who let out a small grunt of pain but made no other noise afterward. He slowly sunk to the floor as blood started to pour from the wound.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, taking a step toward the kneeling detective, however the girl's voice stopped him.

"Leave, Dr Watson, before this gets ugly." She ordered again.

John looked at Sherlock.

"I'm fine, John. _Go._" Sherlock said, his voice a little higher a whisper. But he wasn't "fine" and John could clearly tell. Sherlock's heart rate had accelerated, his breathing was ragged and he was paler than his usual pale, _and_ he was losing blood. Not fast, but there was a steady flow from his wound.

Sherlock could see the reluctance but he met John's eyes and they had a silent conversation. With one last look from John that said, "Don't do or say anything stupid." he started slowly for the door—the girl moving to her right, toward the coffee table to keep an eye on both of them—trying to discreetly grab his mobile from the small table next to his chair, seeing as the girl never took her eyes off Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock warned.

"No," the girl said, giving John a quick sideways glance, "go ahead, phone the police. I don't care. But just know this, Dr Watson, if I spot any movement on those stairs I will put a bullet through your friend's head."

John looked back at Sherlock once more before grabbing his mobile and heading downstairs.

When the girl heard the front door slam closed she spoke.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked, her voice soft.

Sherlock looked at her for a moment.

"Shirley Flynn," he finally said in a voice just as soft.

"And do you know why I'm here?" Shirley asked.

"Your father," Sherlock deduced. "James Flynn. I helped Scotland Yard solve a murder that sent your father to prison."

Tears filled Shirley's eyes at the mention of her father.

"You sent my dad to prison!" Shirley spat through gritted teeth, shaking the gun. "You sent him to his _death_. He was a good man." She blinked and the tears that had filled her eyes a moment before came spilling over.

"He _murdered_ someone." Sherlock pointed out helpfully, meeting Shirley's acidic glare evenly.

"To protect me! To protect his daughter!" Shirley cried. "He was the only family I had left and you took him away from me!" Her face morphed into a mask of anger and hate, both her hands tightening their grip on the gun, tightening her grip on the trigger. "Thanks to you he's dead and I'm the foster system."

Outside of 221B sirens wailed as four police cars pulled up, lights flashing through the windows. There was a voice over a megaphone but neither Shirley nor Sherlock paid them any mind.

"Listen, I'm sorry—" Sherlock said, as an automatic thing, trying to get her to stop pointing the gun at him, however it had the opposite reaction he was expecting.

"Sorry," Shirley spat, her fury reaching a new level. "Sorry! _Sorry_!" She dropped the gun to her side and started pacing, but stayed a good distance away from and was always aware of Sherlock in case he tried to grab the gun from her. "It's just a word. A word with no meaning. People take it for granted. It's overused. Worn out." Her voice turned bitter and mocking. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It means _nothing_ anymore. Always apologising but never actually meaning it. Apologising before stabbing someone in the back. Apologising before betraying someone's trust. If you were really sorry you wouldn't have done it in the first place." She stopped pacing and looked at Sherlock. "Apologising for what I'm about to do."

Sherlock's eyes flickered down to the gun in time to see her grip tighten.

"Shirley—" Sherlock started softly, trying not to agitate her again.

"That word has lost its meaning to me. And I'm not sorry for what I'm about to do. Really, I'm not."

"Shirley—" Sherlock said again more feverishly.

"I've made up my mind, Mr Holmes." Shirley said in a scarily calm and quiet voice. She blinked and more tears streamed down her face as she slowly lifted the gun, her wide emerald green eyes locked with Sherlock's ever-changing eyes, and pulled the trigger.

Outside of 221B as soon as John heard the gunshot his heart leapt into his throat.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, bolting forward and into the flat, ignoring the yells and screams from the officers behind him. All his mind was focused on was Sherlock and if he was okay. That girl had been there because of something Sherlock had done and based on her actions and her words, her intention was to kill him. John had no doubt that if an officer had gone up there to try and negotiate, or whatever, she would've killed Sherlock.

Now, now what? Was he dead? That thought sent John reeling. His breath quickened and his stomach dropped. He felt ill but he pushed his body up those flights of stairs to the lounge. No, he couldn't be. He just _couldn't_.

The army doctor made it to the landing and through the still open door he could see where Sherlock had been kneeling, but he was no longer there. The pool of blood that had accumulated from his gunshot wound was smeared in the direction to the right, where the coffee table and sofa were.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice weak and breathless, as he stepped through doorway, bracing himself for what he was about to see. He stopped on the threshold. Sherlock looked up at the doctor as he'd come through the door, his hands dropping from the girl's face.

She was lying on the floor, gun still in her hand, her blood spattered all over the wall, even more blood slowly pouring from the back of her head, where she lay.

John realised that Sherlock had crawled over to her and closed her eyes. That's why his hand had been near her face when John had first come in. Behind him four police officers had come up the stairs but stopped at the sight of the dead girl.

The doctor's eyes went back to the detective's.

"Are you all right?" John asked quietly.

"I'm fine." Sherlock answered too quickly. His eyes flickered to his leg before going back to John. "It'll heal."

"That's not what I meant and you know it." John replied just as quick.

Sherlock broke eye contact, his gaze going to the girl, who looked as if she were merely asleep. It could've been John's imagination or a delusion of some kind, coming off of that adrenaline high, but he could've sworn seeing a look of pain pass across the consulting detective's face, a hollowness in his eyes. And that was why John had asked if he was all right.

Silence started to form between the two as Sherlock continued to stare at the girl and when he did answer John's initial question, his voice was so soft, so quiet John almost didn't catch him, as if his answer had been John's imagination or a delusion as well:

"I will be."

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**Yeah… depressing, I know, but I've had this idea for a while now and for some reason only saw it in the Sherlock world. I think it kind of shows Sherlock's human side, too.**

**Also, I'm sorry—and I sincerely mean it—that I haven't updated in a while. I've been having a rough time these past couple of days and lost my muse for a moment there, but I'm back and I will give you the rest of your drabbles tomorrow.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	6. Brother

#06 | Brother

John asked the cab to wait for him and slowly slid out into the cold, rainy afternoon. His shoes sunk slightly into the ground with every step, the ground had absorbed so much water—it'd been raining non-stop this past week—and his cane wasn't helping all that much. His leg ached with all the cold and wet it was being exposed to and just the mere fact that he was on it.

Even so, John slogged through the wet and cold and pushed through the pain of his leg. It wasn't like he hadn't experienced worse in Afghanistan, but after everything that happened, after being thrown into a world full of life, lights, colour, sound, excitement, adrenaline rush, fast-paced adventures and then having it all so abruptly halted, so fast and quick, like the clean break of a bone, leaving him with a new world that was grey, dull, dark, alone, everything just felt absolutely miserable.

Through the sheet of rain, as John made his way through the graveyard, shoulder's hunched, coat tightly buttoned to keep as much of the arctic rain water from soaking him to the bone because he'd been too busy thinking about what day it was today to remember an umbrella, he thought he saw some kind of… shadow over his favourite detective's gravestone.

As of now, John was too far away to determine what it was, especially through all the rain, but as he got closer he stopped a few feet away from the large black gravestone that read SHERLOCK HOLMES in gold letters, the sound of the rain dimming, the cold of the rain disappearing all together. All John could do for a moment was stand and stare, his mouth slightly ajar, the only sound was his slowed heartbeat.

The black shadow that had been hanging over the consulting detective's grave had been an umbrella, of all things, leaning against the gravestone, keeping it and the grass surrounding it dry. Because of Sherlock's limited amount of friends, John had only three other people who he thought would visit his grave: Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Mycroft.

Mycroft seemed a bit of a stretch but given that there was an umbrella leaning against Sherlock's gravestone, maybe that wasn't too far of a stretch after all.

John finally unfroze and walked a few more steps forward, still slightly in shock. Not exactly because it seemed Sherlock's older brother—who'd sold him out to a criminal mastermind that wanted to ruin him—visited his grave today, but more so that he'd left his umbrella. It was… sentimental. And as far as John knew neither of the Holmes boys were at all sentimental, let alone understood the emotions behind it. Now that he was here, though, now that John was seeing this for his own eyes, he realised, maybe, just maybe, Mycroft really did care for and—dare he say it?—love his little brother, after all.

Sadness mixed with an odd sense of happiness rushed through the army doctor at his epiphany and he blinked a few times as his eyes filled with tears and choked back a sob as his throat tightened. He quickly composed himself before stepping forward to set his single preserved flower down at the base of the gravestone, well under the umbrella, protected, safe from the rain, before stepping back, taking a moment and then turning and heading back to his waiting cab without a backward glance.

* * *

**I saw a pencil sketch on Facebook that depicted a rainy day with an umbrella over Sherlock's gravestone. But it wasn't that that had given me the idea to write it out, it was actually someone's comment: "Not sure if John put it there. Or Mycroft actually loves his brother."**

**As much as I strongly, **_**strongly**_** dislike Mycroft that struck me to the core and this is what came from it. I hope you enjoyed!**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	7. Omnipotent

#07 | Omnipotent

Jim Moriarty watched from his mobile, earphones in, with leisure as Sherlock found the small camera he'd placed—well, one of his worker's had placed, anyway—in the detective's flat. He'd wanted to do it himself but Seb had convinced him it was "too risky" to be pulling "stunts like that" this close to the end of the game.

Everything was going according to plan.

Jim couldn't help but smile as Sherlock told the Detective Inspector: "It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play."

Moriarty had to admit, Sherlock was clever and it was rather fun to play this game with him. Finally, someone to distract him from the mind-numbing simplicity of life. However, as this game of theirs came to close, he found himself disappointed in Sherlock. He may have been clever but he was on the side of the angels. He fell into Moriarty's traps like all the rest of them and _that's_ what disappointed him most of all.

_Too predictable._

Jim turned off the feed with a quick click and pulled the earphones from his ears. No matter, the story continued. The show must go on, as they say, and so it would. He stood and opened up the contacts on his mobile, clicking on Kitty Riley's name, his fingers flying over the keyboard: _Going out for bit. Some errands I need to run. Won't be here when you get back._

Kitty responded a few moments later: _Would you mind grabbing some coffee while you're out?_

Jim smiled and scoffed at such a mundane thing. It was interesting, acting as a normal person. Kind of entertaining, getting to watch and observe ordinary people's patterns and ruts they fell into. It made it all too easy to control, later on. Ordinary people were easy to manipulate, naïve, gullible.

Nonetheless he quickly texted back, _Sure thing._ Before he exited her flat.

See, the problem with Sherlock wasn't just that he was on the side of the angels, it was that he, too, was predictable. And that was when this so-called "game" became boring, _tedious_. Because it had turned into a story. And not a fairy tale, either, because in fairy tales the "good guy" always won.

Moriarty smiled to himself, shaking his head ever so slightly, as he headed down the street, what Sherlock told Lestrade echoing through his head.

It had been entirely wrong.

_Sherlock, dear, it's not a game if I've already won._

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**Wow, it's harder to write like a consulting criminal than it is to write like a consulting detective. But they're both fun equally as fun. Hope**** it was believable (and that you enjoyed it)!**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	8. Confusion

**An OC from America who has either been dropped into the world of Sherlock or the world of Sherlock exists and ours doesn't, you decide, who has somehow gotten herself involved in one of Sherlock's "adventures".**

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#08 | Confusion

"I don't think, you're angry." She griped, glaring at Sherlock. "I think, you're angry. Make up your mind…" She trailed off, stopping herself from saying "dude", because it was way too American considering where she was currently, and instead settled with, "mate."

* * *

**Hopefully that was as humorous as I wanted it to be…**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	9. Psychologist

#09 | Psychologist

Lestrade shuffled up to Dr Serena Knight, who had somehow weaselled her way onto one of their cases as the criminal profiler. It wasn't like that was necessarily a bad thing, however, Sherlock was a criminal profiler and then some. In Lestrade's opinion Dr Knight wasn't exactly needed here.

Still, that didn't mean he couldn't ask her a few questions, gain some insight on matters that he'd never really thought about going to a therapist for.

"You're also a… shrink, right?" The Detective Inspector asked a little under his breath, for Sherlock was only a few feet away and his question involved said detective.

One side of Serena's lips curled up into a half smile and she scoffed.

"Clinical Psychologist, yes." She corrected, giving him a sideways glance. "Why do you ask?"

Lestrade shrugged, his eyes straying over to Sherlock, making sure he wasn't paying attention to the two.

"What about Sherlock?" Serena asked, keeping her voice low, her eyes flickering over to the consulting detective as well, before going back to Lestrade, who looked at her surprised when she'd asked her question.

"You noticed that?" He queried. Serena simply smiled and waited. "Well, you've interacted with him a lot these past few days and he's always claiming to be a high-functioning sociopath and you're a—what was it? Clinical psychologist. I… wanted to know what you thought. Of him."

Serena chuckled. "High-functioning sociopath? Well, from what I've picked up, and it's not at all 'in my professional opinion', having only known him for a few days, he's not a sociopath. He's just bad with people."

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**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	10. Miracle

#10 | Miracle

John hated Chemistry.

And it wasn't just because he was failing. None of what the teacher spewed out of her mouth made any sense to him. All the numbers and letters and elements of the periodic table they'd memorised. Well… were supposed to have memorised at least. It was a work in progress. (But he'd need some kind of… miracle if he was going to pass this class.)

John sighed heavily as the last few students filed into the classroom and the late bell rang, signalling the beginning of class. However, before the teacher could begin her lesson, someone John had never seen before stepped in.

He was their age, lanky, tall, had a mess of dark curls atop his head and ever-keen, intelligent grey eyes. A new kid, John guessed. That much was obvious.

The teacher went up to him with a warm smile. They exchanged a few words before she turned toward her students.

"Class, I'd like to introduce a new student. Say hello to Sherlock Holmes." She said. There were some muttered "hellos" around the room. The new kid, Sherlock gave a slight nod of his head back, but uttered not a single thing. The teacher then directed him to his seat, which happened to be right next to John.

* * *

**Just a little—what's the slang for it?—teen!lock(?) there for all of you. I hope it was somewhat amusing, or, at the very least, bemusing.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	11. Offend

#11 | Offend

"What do you mean Sherlock can't help with this case anymore?" John asked the Detective Inspector incredulously. It had been quite a surprise. Just yesterday they'd been going over leads, looking at evidence and today it was, "Nope, sorry. You're off the case."

Lestrade gave John a weary look and opened his mouth as if to tell the doctor why exactly Sherlock had been kicked off the case, but the words got caught in his throat.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

"It's obvious, John." he said, giving Lestrade a withering look. "I've become a suspect."

John blanched at this news before the spark of fury ignited inside him.

"You've got to _kidding_ me!" John snapped. "You suspect Sherlock—there's no way! This is bloody ridiculous! What evidence do you have?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you anything that relates to this case anymore, John." Lestrade finally spoke, quietly.

John fumed, his mouth opened again as he got ready to chew the Detective Inspector out but Sherlock spoke first, his voice very calm, cool and levelled. (As ever.)

"It's all right, John." he said carefully, fixing his friend with a hard stare.

John shook his head. "Oh, no. Don't you dare tell me it's all right, Sherlock. You and I both know that you didn't do _anything_. This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Why aren't you upset?!"

"I'm just a suspect, John." Sherlock told him.

"And what? You think they'll find evidence to prove that you didn't do anything? I highly doubt that, if they're stupid enough to call a suspect in the first place—"

"Hey, now! There's no need for that." Lestrade defended himself as well as Scotland Yard.

"He's right, John." the consulting detective said, earning a glare from John as he started to pace, but then he turned to look at Lestrade, "Though, he does have a valid point." referring to Scotland Yard being stupid enough to suspect Sherlock in the first place.

"Now don't you start—" Lestrade began.

"I thought you said you weren't upset." John interrupted gaining back Sherlock's attention. He was shifting from foot to foot, his hand clenching and unclenching.

Sherlock scoffed. "Angry, no." He once again looked back at Lestrade. "This is an insult to my intelligence. As if I would be stupid enough to get caught."

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**Think that was believable enough…?**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	12. Mind

#12 | Mind

"Wow," Jenny Bell, Sherlock's current client, exclaimed softly. She was slowly shaking her head, her eyes full of awe as she looked over at Sherlock, who was sitting in his armchair. John was sitting at the desk, taking notes. Well, he had been, but when Sherlock went into one of his deductions about Jenny he simply gave an exasperated sigh and waited until he was finished.

"I can only imagine what it would be like to have your brain." Jenny continued.

"That's a very accurate statement." Sherlock replied.

* * *

**Credit to Bones (the television show) for giving me the idea.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrighestNight**


	13. Remark

#13 | Remark

Sherlock came out from his room, his curly locks in disarray. He wore simple pyjama bottoms and a grey t-shirt with his blue dressing gown limply hanging on his slim shoulders, well half-hanging. One side of his dressing gown had slid off one of his shoulders. He looked tired but his blue-green-grey eyes were as keen as ever.

John looked up from his newspaper and looked over his shoulder as the consulting detective shuffled into the kitchen and turned on the kettle with an unconcealed yawn. He'd been sleeping in his room for at least 14 hours since having solved a case that'd gone on for three days with said detective having only slept for three hours during that 72 hour period.

Sleeping for that long would've usually worried John, because this was Sherlock Holmes—even if he did only get three hours of sleep during a three day period—but at the end of the case Sherlock had also been injured: a nasty gash on his upper forearm that was deep enough to need stitches and a deep stab wound in his other lower forearm both from a scalpel. (Which was another story for another time.) Anyway, because of those injuries he was on meds, much to Sherlock's objections (which had been loud and constant, but John convinced him to take them).

"How are you feeling?" John asked as Sherlock padded into the lounge and sat down in his armchair.

"Well, I'm on medication," he started in a soft voice, just above a whisper, closing his eyes and steepling his hands under his chin. "So, I imagine I feel how people of average intelligence feel all the time."

* * *

**Once again, credit to Bones (the television show) for giving me this idea.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	14. Command

#14 | Command

"Don't fail and don't get yourself killed. That's an order, soldier."

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**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	15. Ultimatum

#15 | Ultimatum

"If you give him such a big choice between two things, you have to be prepared to, firstly, handle the decision he makes and, secondly, handle the consequences of that decision."

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**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrighestNight**


	16. Man

#16 | Man

Gunshots ring through the drug-laden air as Lestrade aims for the beastly dog, both in size and appearance. The hound cringes back at the sound, however, none of Lestrade's bullets made contact, only angering the creature, once it realises that it hadn't been hit.

Growling, its back legs muscles tense as the dog prepares to launch itself at one of the men standing in the clearing. It's just pushed its paws off the ground and I react automatically, raising my own weapon and firing at the hound. My gunshots slice through the air, the bullets making contact and throwing the dog backwards, to the ground, with a pained yelp. There's a tense silence as all of us in the clearing determine whether the dog is now a threat to them anymore.

My eyes flicker over to Sherlock who suddenly and quickly goes up to Henry, pushing him toward the hound with one hand, shining his torchlight on the dog with the other.

"Look at it, Henry." Sherlock insists in a hard, commanding voice, pushing the man forward.

"No, no, no," Henry resists, digging his heals into the ground, his voice shaking and dripping with fear.

Sherlock persists, however, fighting against Henry's protests and struggles as he says, "Come on, _look_ at it!" They get a few feet away and more silence fills the air as Sherlock shines his torch on the unmoving dog and Henry replaces that image of a hound from hell—something you'd see in your worst nightmares or from the most horrific of horror movies—that's been haunting him ever since he was a child with the image of a very large, menacing but utterly ordinary dog.

I let out a small breath, as my heart settles and the adrenaline slowly starts to wear off. A small smile pulls at the edges of my lips as I realise what Sherlock had done. It strikes me to the core, knowing Sherlock didn't have to do anything, because the case had been solved, but he did. He let Henry, a man who was almost driven insane by drugs and his distorted memory of his father's brutal murder, see the truth for himself and come to terms with what happened so long ago.

It was very thoughtful, caring and affectionate.

It was very… _human_.

* * *

"**And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very **_**lucky**_**, he might even be a ****good**** one."**

**I semi-understood what Lestrade meant: Sherlock was a great man because he was a genius, but he wasn't good one because—and that's where my understanding ended. It had always bothered me that I couldn't figure out the second half… Then, I saw an episode of Bones (yes, I've been getting quite a lot of inspiration from that show lately) where the main character, Brennan, does something very sentimental for her partner, Booth, and one of her other friends says, "You're a good person, Brennan." and the epiphany hit me. **_**That's**_** what Lestrade meant when he said that Sherlock was a great man, but not a good one.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	17. Confession

#17 | Confession

"Right," John said, giving a curt nod. "Okay. So, just tell him then? Tell him that… I love him."

"Yes." I agreed but quickly moved into another sentence, "_Except_—"

"Except?" John echoed, interrupting me, giving me a reproachful, wary look.

I sighed heavily and thought for a moment how to word this. "You and I both know that Sherlock's 'high-functioning sociopath' status and his inability to be sociable is just a shield, protection, a defence."

"Yes… all right," John agreed, still wary about where this was going.

I gave him a very serious look as I continued, "If you breach those defences, manage to make him drop his shield, and change your mind—if it turns out you don't really love him, he'll die in and from isolation before he'll ever come trust anyone ever again."

* * *

**So, probably the one and only time I'll explicitly state this is definitely Johnlock, if you didn't figure that out. It's not that I consider Johnlock a bad thing—I actually thoroughly enjoy the fluff (and **_**only**_** the fluff)—they're not my OTP and I just don't ship them.**

**Again, credit to Bones (because Dr Brennan reminds me of Sherlock, a lot).**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	18. Survival

#18 | Survival

"I believe that Moriarty is still alive." She said in a solemn voice, gently closing her eyes.

He scoffed. "Oh, please—"

The woman's eyes snapped open. The air of serenity surrounding her didn't disappear, but her eyes blazed with intense blue fire and when she spoke, her voice rang with confidence and authority and a sense of… _knowing_.

She lowered her right hand, palm up and said, "Sherlock Holmes: the Consulting Detective." She then lowered her left hand, palm up. "James Moriarty: the Consulting Criminal." She then closed both her hands into fists and brought them together, hands/fists still facing up. She looked down at them as she brought them together and then looked up at the man, sitting across from her while slowly opening her palms to reveal—

"Yin and Yang." he murmured, slightly surprised by the sudden magic trick.

She nodded once before breaking eye contact as she put them together and set them on the table. "One cannot live without the other." She looked back up at him and set her hands down on the table.

He still thought all this was a bunch of rubbish, but something about the way she looked at him with those fierce eyes, contradicting her serene aura, and the way she spoke with such certainty and knowledge made chills run down his spine.

If Sherlock could fake a fall from a rooftop, surely Moriarty could fake a gunshot to the head….

Could Moriarty really still be alive?

* * *

**A bit of mysticism there, for you. Hope it was okay. I was winging the whole way through because I'd originally planned for this to be one sentence.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	19. Wishes

#19 | Wishes

John hauled the five bags from Tesco's up the stairs by himself. As usual. Sherlock was in the lounge, sitting in his armchair. As usual.

However, not "as usual" as John came up to the landing, he noticed the detective… jump, possibly, before stuffing something down between the chair's cushion and arm. Pretending he didn't see anything, John continued into kitchen and set the bags down on an empty spot of the counter, being careful not to knock over any of Sherlock's experiments. Curiosity now eating at him, he swiftly put away all the items that needed to be kept cold or frozen before going into the lounge and plopping down into his armchair.

He examined Sherlock for a moment, as silence enveloped the two flatmates. The detective now had a book in his hands and was studiously ignoring John as well as hiding his face behind the book.

"What was that thing, you had there, when I walked in?" John finally asked, glancing at where Sherlock had stuffed it.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." Sherlock answered, his voice just above a whisper, the book still blocking his face. Having lived with Sherlock long enough, though, and being his best friend, of course, John knew that _something_ was up and that he was lying.

This made him smile, as it usually did, when the high-functioning sociopath showed his very human side.

"Are-are you sure. Because I could've sworn you hid something when I walked up—" The army doctor pressed.

"I didn't know you could be so observant." Sherlock commented flippantly, not letting John finish.

This made John's smile turn into a grin.

"So you admit that you're hiding something from me?" he asked.

Sherlock lowered the book sharply and glared over at John. "I didn't say that." He responded too quickly. Still smirking John quickly stood and went for whatever it was Sherlock was hiding. Not expecting this, Sherlock didn't have very much time to react and John easily wrestled the crumpled and bent piece of paper, before sitting back down in his chair.

Sherlock snapped the book closed and looked at the fireplace, annoyance (and embarrassment?) all over his features.

On closer inspection, it wasn't a piece of paper, much too thick. It was a greeting card. Raising an eyebrow John opened it up and read it, not able to help the smile and chuckle when he did.

John held the card up for him to see. "This is what you were hiding from me?" He asked, amusement clear in his voice.

The consulting detective, however, was not amused at all. With a huff and a glare, he briskly stood up and went to his room, slamming the door, like an adolescent teen. John followed him, still quite amused.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock! It's nothing to be ashamed about." he called, setting the card down on the kitchen counter before heading down the hall to stand outside of Sherlock's closed door.

"I'm not ashamed." Sherlock called back. "Go away."

"You're being ridiculous." John pointed out, crossing his arms.

"You're being annoying." Sherlock responded, making John chuckle. He stood there for a moment, thinking of something to say that would get Sherlock to come out of his room when the perfect idea struck him.

"Mrs Hudson!" he hollered, as he headed back down to the kitchen.

Like John had predicted, the door opened and Sherlock stuck his head through.

"John?" he asked, peering out into the hallway just in time to see John leave the kitchen, passing the card still lying on the counter. He heard footsteps descending stairs not a moment after.

"You'll never guess what today is!" John continued.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, quickly leaving his room and following the exceedingly annoying army doctor/blogger/friend of his down the hall, into the kitchen, also passing the card that had been from Mycroft.

A joke of sorts?

Maybe.

But either way, what was written inside in very elegant, refined, British government handwriting made it perfectly clear what today was:

_Happy Birthday, dear brother.  
__Mycroft_

* * *

**So, today is Benedict Cumberbatch's birthday and in honour of that, I decided to make it Sherlock's as well… I guess, if that makes any sense to you. Not saying that he and Sherlock have the same birthday, but more like… it is Sherlock's birthday wherever in this time stream of the modern Sherlock Holmes—I'm going to stop talking now.**

**Happy Birthday to Benedict! And I hope you all enjoyed!**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrighestNight**


	20. Forthright

#20 | Forthright

"Do you have spontaneous amnesia or are you just stupid?"

* * *

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrighestNight**


	21. Wild

#21 | Wild

"Better hold on tight, boys." said the crazy woman—also their client Caroline—who had gotten Sherlock and John into a bigger mess than they'd imagined. Currently, she was sitting behind the wheel of a car she's stolen. Well, more like, stolen back. It'd been in a parking garage and the people who had stolen it from her were standing between them and the only exit. The two "boys" were sitting in the backseat.

Caroline gripped the steering wheel and was about to hit the gas when John spoke up, almost yelling.

"Wait! You're not going to drive at them, are you?" John asked, glancing at them nervously, watching them shift in a way that dared them to make the first move.

"That's the only exit, Doctor Watson. If you have a better idea, I'd love to hear." She paused, but only for a brief moment. "No? Okay, then. We're sticking to my plan. They'll move."

"And what if they don't?" John asked quickly before she could go.

Caroline glanced back at the detective, who hadn't said a word, and his blogger with a devilish smile, "Get out now and hail a cab or risk the chance of becoming accessories to murder. Your choice."

Sherlock looked at John and they had a silent conversation before they looked back at Caroline. They didn't say a word, but they didn't have to because the fact that they hadn't gotten out as quick as they could was answer enough.

Caroline turned to face the front again, laughing as she slammed her food down on the gas and the car went from 0 to 60 in seconds.

* * *

**Hm… not one I'm particularly proud of, but it was kind of fun to write. What do you think?**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrighestNight**


	22. General

#22 | General

"Well, you just—you just described… Sherlock." Anderson said, pointing at the detective.

"Which just proves that he really is a sociopathic freak." Donovan commented loudly.

The psychiatrist looked at the two with the poker face. "Raspberries are red, but not all red things are raspberries."

* * *

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	23. Pronunciation

#23 | Pronunciation

"Extraordinary, Anderson."

"Really?"

"Yes, quite extra ordinary."

* * *

**Yeah, I like picking on Anderson. I hope that made sense, too.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrighestNight**


	24. Nuance

#24 | Nuance

A loud moan resounded throughout the lounge of the flat, followed by a loud, exasperated sigh and the throwing down of a book onto the coffee table.

"If you're so _smart_, why not just change the text alert noise?"

* * *

**Sorry these are super late and there's only three. I'll catch up before the month ends (maybe), but I lost my muse for this story. That's also why they're so short.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	25. Fake

#25 | Fake

"He's not a fraud! He was _never_ a fraud and he never will be! _No one_ can make him into something he's not."

* * *

**Again, apologies for such short ones. My muse seems to have flown away. I'm sure it'll come back soon.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	26. Request

#26 | Request

"If you haven't noticed, _Mycroft_, I'm supposed to be in hiding." Holmes, the younger, spat, glaring at this brother.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a sarcastic smile, "I'm well aware, thank you."

"No," Sherlock answered, impatient to get out of the small room with one door and no windows, they were currently sitting in. He also needed to get back to hunting Moriarty's network.

"It won't reveal you're alive. You will remain dead to the public. All I ask is that—"

"Why me?" Sherlock interrupted, exceedingly irritated now.

"Because, apart from me, you are the smartest person I know that is willing to—"

"Put forth the effort?" Sherlock finished, raising an eyebrow and meeting his brother's eyes, a half smile of mockery on his face. Mycroft glared back, not amused. "However much I agree that I am the smartest person you know, I simply can't help you. I'm far too busy. Good afternoon, Mycroft. And you might want to cut back on the cakes." With that Sherlock stood and exited the room.

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh at his brother's antics and rolled his eyes before standing up and quickly following his brother out, determined to get him to agree to what he was asking.

* * *

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	27. Ego

#27 | Ego

"It doesn't make any sense. This guy's house had a camera on every square inch of his house, around-the-clock security, bolted windows and doors with bullet-proof glass. How could… _anyone_ get inside the house unnoticed, undetected and unrecorded and kill the man?" Lestrade threw the case file down on the table and sighed heavily, his eyes inadvertently flickering over to Sherlock.

"What, you think I did it?" Sherlock snapped, getting tired of being accused of every crime committed under the sun—or rather clouds—in London.

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Oh, please, don't flatter yourself," he muttered under his breath.

* * *

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	28. Diction

**The England has school reunions… right?**

* * *

#28 | Diction

"Why didn't you tell me your school was having a reunion today?" John asked suddenly as they re-entered the flat.

"What?" Sherlock asked, taking his coat and scar off, looking at his friend, eyebrows furrowed.

"The mail, I found a letter addressed to you—"

"You opened something that was clearly addressed to me? John—"

"_No_," John interrupted before the detective could go off. "I gave it to you and you told me to throw it away without even opening it. I was… curious. But I did offer it to you."

"And that makes it okay to still open it?" Sherlock questioned, sitting down in his armchair and steepling his hands underneath his chin. John sat down in his, and simply looked at Sherlock, waiting for him to answer.

"Because it's not important." Sherlock finally answered in a quiet voice, closing his eyes. "I don't see the point in it. Besides, we were much more productive with our time tonight, solving a murder."

"The point is to see how all your classmates are doing and brag about how much more successful you are than the people who… you know… bullied you." John told him, faltering a bit on the bully part, because, even though Sherlock didn't talk about his past, John wasn't that stupid not to be able to deduce that he was bullied when he was younger.

"It doesn't matter, John." Sherlock said in a louder, slightly sterner voice. "No one would notice my absence. And besides I got the feeling they didn't particularly like me then, why should they like me now?"

John looked at his friend, who still had his hands steepled and eyes closed, with a bit of sadness, just thinking about all he'd had to go through during school.

Silence started to form, but the army doctor broke that silence a few moments after it had started, "I think there's a difference between 'dislike' and 'misunderstood'."

* * *

**Credit to Bones, once again, for helping me with this idea.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	29. Personal

#29 | Personal

"I won't agree to this. We're risking our lives for someone who… isn't even that important—"

"He's important to _me_."

* * *

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	30. Whisper

#30 | Whisper

He wasn't just the king with the key.

He was the man with the secrets.

And that made him the most dangerous man in the world.

* * *

**Not exactly what I had wanted for my second to last, but… I did try. I really did.**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	31. Friendship

**{Just a little extension of #10.}**

* * *

#31 | Friendship

John cleared his throat hesitantly, catching the boy's attention. The new kid in his Chemistry class, Sherlock Holmes. It was currently lunch and Sherlock was currently sitting alone at a table, reading a book. He looked up from his book, his keen blue-green eyes fixing on John.

Trying not to squirm under Sherlock's trenchant stare—it's taken him a good five minutes to work up the courage to come over here in the first place—John opened his mouth, ready to introduce himself… that or start a conversation somehow that would lead to him asking if Sherlock would be able to help him in Chemistry. It wasn't just that he wanted to pass that class, hi parents were pushing him to at least pass, making threats about grounding him and such.

They couldn't afford to hire a tutor and John didn't get along with the teacher very well (that hadn't a pleasant experience _at all_). His parents kind of ditched him after that, claiming he didn't want to get better at Chem and left him to his own devices, the warning still hanging over his head like a rain cloud.

Before any words could come out, however, Sherlock spoke.

"You want help in Chemistry, don't you?" he asked, speaking for the first time since they'd "met" (he hadn't once raised his hand during class to answer a question). His voice was surprisingly deep. It wasn't baritone just yet, but it was definitely heading that way.

John fidgeted for a moment before warily taking a seat across from the boy, shocked.

"Yes. How did—how did you know?" he queried.

Sherlock closed his book and set aside on the table while saying, "I didn't know, I noticed. Today in class you kept looking at my notes. You seemed surprised at the detail and complexity of them. You also seemed in slightly in awe that I understood what the teacher was talking about, when you have struggled in it since the beginning of the year yourself."

"How do you know I struggle?" John interrupted a little defensively. It was true, of course, but this kid was claiming to know something about John when they hadn't even said a single word to each other until now.

"You sit at the back of the classroom. Shoulders hunched. So you don't want to be noticed. You look down at your notes or start pretending to write something in your notebook, sometimes you even close your eyes when the teacher asks a question. That tells me that you don't want to be called on. Most likely because you don't know the answer. Which means that you're either not confident or you're just not good at Chemistry. I chose the latter because the way you walk around school and act with your friends tells me that you're quite confident with yourself."

For a moment all John could do was stare at the pale, slim, blue-green-gray eyed, curly-haired boy because he was in shock. He'd picked up all of that? And they didn't even know each other.

Who was this kid? And how in the world was he not in some… university right now? Or at the very least a grade or two ahead of his class.

"Well?" Sherlock finally asked when John hadn't said anything for a few minutes.

John blinked and snapped out of his haze.

"Right, yes. Sorry. Um… I suppose I should introduce myself." He held out his hand. "I'm—"

"John Watson, yes, I know." Sherlock said smirking and shaking John's hand.

"Oh, and he's modest, too." John muttered.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit, his brow furrowing. "Sarcasm?" he asked.

It was John's turn to smile because he genuinely seemed to not know if John was being sarcastic. "… yeah, sarcasm."

A sort of awkward silence formed between the two, but Sherlock broke it, his eyes flickering to John's Chemistry book.

"So… Chem," he said. "What do you need help with?"

John hesitated before answering, "Everything." He sighed heavily. "None of this makes sense. I don't understand it. And, frankly, I think it's bloody pointless. But one thing's for sure, I'm not going to be a chemist."

Sherlock chuckled. "I'm surprised you made it this far, what with your not knowing anything about it."

"Ha, funny." John rolled his eyes.

"So we'll start with tonight's homework and go from there, then?" Sherlock asked, an odd feeling welling up inside him. Well, not completely odd, because he had felt it before, but put into context it was odd.

Excitement. He felt excited. But why? There was nothing particularly _exciting_ about helping someone else with schoolwork. He'd never gotten excited about this kind of thing before. It was horribly mundane. The things that excited him were experiments and puzzles and thought-provoking games.

"So, you will help me, then?" John asked, breaking Sherlock from his thoughts.

"Of course, it'd be rude not to help another classmate." Sherlock answered, ignoring that excited feeling for now. He would figure it out later.

And he would, after a few years of knowing John Watson.

He would figure out that he was excited because for the first time throughout his school career, someone had come up to him. Someone had willingly come up to him and talked to him. Even asked for his help. And wasn't scared off by his deductions or intelligence. Didn't hold a grudge at his quips and smart remarks. Accepted him for who he was and didn't try to change him or make fun of him because of who he was.

A friend.

He'd finally found a friend.

And after ten years he would come to find not just a friend, but a life-long friend.

* * *

**All right, well, that's the end of this month. I hope this was an okay ending, my writing suffers when I push through writer's block.**

**Thank you for joining the ride again. I don't think it was as good as the last one, but I'm still pretty proud of it. As always, thanks to anyone who commented/alerted/favourited!**

**Next month **_**might**_** be Doctor Who, but seeing as I lost my muse in the middle of this one and haven't exactly gotten it back, I might take a month off—as much as it pains me to say that. I was trying to go for a whole year…. Again, though, **_**might**_**. (We'll see how I'm feeling tomorrow, I suppose.)**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


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